


Love Grows

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-18
Updated: 2008-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:59:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for Hogwarts Elite's Term 13 Fiction Contest #4. The prompt: <em>Your mission sounds much simpler than it is. You must write a piece of fiction in second-person point of view.</em></p><p>Dedicated to my Puffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Grows

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

You walk through the grounds of Hogwarts for the last time, or at least your last time as a student, letting your feet take you down familiar paths while your mind wanders. You're already reasonably certain of what you want to do after you have graduated, although your plan of how to get into your ideal career is less than finalised. Right now, though, it doesn't really matter; you're too busy enjoying the fresh air, the cool breezes blowing off the surface of the lake, and the knowledge that you have made it, you have battled through, you are going to graduate and you aren't dead.

Little first-years follow you for short sections of your meandering stroll around the castle, asking you questions that you have heard over and over again, and you answer them patiently. Mostly what they want to know is how it felt to face Lord Voldemort in the flesh, to stand face to face with him, to stand _up_ to him, and you say: I can't explain it, but it's a bit like facing a boggart, only harder. You know what boggarts are? Of course you do. Now that Defence Against the Dark Arts is being taught properly, all of you know what a boggart is. Well, Lord Voldemort was like a boggart, only instead of laughing at him, we had to fight him. We had to destroy the things he hid his soul in.

They accept this as an explanation, most of the time. Some of them walk away knowing that there is so much more to it than that. Some of them try and press you for more; you smile at them and say: In a year's time, you'll be learning all about this in History of Magic. I hear Professor Binns has finally decided to move into this century with his teachings.

And then they laugh and that's enough for them and they leave you alone to keep walking. After you circumnavigate the grounds, you go back inside the castle through the great old front doors, weaving through the scattering of students who are already packed and waiting to leave, and your feet take you along the hallway and down the stairs. You don't really want to go there, but while all the pretty places deserve a bittersweet farewell, the darker places have to have their doors closed for the last time as well. The long dark hallway has only a few lamps here and there to make it safe to walk down; so few of the first years were sorted into Slytherin that they have been moved to an airy dormitory on the third floor, out of the darkness, out of the past, and the handful of Slytherins who came back (emphatically none of the seventh years) have been too busy keeping their heads down and remaining unnoticed to complain.

You reach the Potions classroom door and push it open. Nobody has been down here since the equipment was relocated to the new Potions classroom; the air is musty, smelling like old wood smoke and ashes, like the stench of failed potions and the delicate flowery scent of the perfume Pansy Parkinson used to wear. You remember it smelled sickly-sweet when she doused herself in the stuff, but now it is only the tiniest trace on the air, and is almost nice. You walk around the room, not looking for anything in particular, just satisfying yourself that no ghosts haunt this place. There is one cauldron left abandoned on a bench, and here and there scatterings of various herbs spilt by the last class to work down here. Apparently Snape was too busy betraying Dumbledore to make them clean up. The cupboards hang open, cleared of all their contents; even the usually locked storeroom door is open, a single dried red rose petal the only thing left on its once-crowded shelves.

The _bang_ when the cauldron falls onto the floor makes you almost jump out of your skin. You whirl around, pulling your wand out, heart racing, painfully aware that if there really is an enemy behind you, you are already dead.

It isn't an enemy. It's Hannah from Hufflepuff, looking as startled as you imagine that you do. She hastily bends down to pick the cauldron up. 'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I didn't mean to scare you. I realised I forgot my cauldron.'

'It's all right,' you say, lowering your wand, sliding it back into your pocket, trying to hide the way your hands are shaking.

'What're you doing down here?'

'Just – nothing.'

She nods as if she understands, and maybe she does; you might have been one of Snape's favourite targets, but you certainly weren't the only one. She hooks one arm through the cauldron's thin metal handle, letting it dangle from her elbow, and offers you her other hand. 'Come on, Neville. Don't brood down here all alone. Have you finished your packing?'

You let her take your hand and pull you out of the dismal room without looking back. 'I have finished, actually.' But then you remember something. 'No, wait, I've left my _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ in the greenhouse. Sprout was minding it for me during NEWTs.'

'Do you want company?' Hannah asks. She is still holding your hand, and gives it a friendly squeeze. 'I can drop my cauldron off and come with you, if you like.'

You can feel your cheeks turning pink, but you manage to smile and say, 'That would be nice.' She smiles back. Several sets of eyes follow you as you emerge from the dungeons and Hannah deposits the cauldron atop her suitcase, but aside from a loudly raised eyebrow from Ernie Macmillan, nobody comments. You're not even sure yet what it is they'd comment on.

The Herbology greenhouses are warm and smell alive and green, and you take several deep breaths of the humid air, letting it clear your mind and body of the staleness of the Potions classroom. Professor Sprout is nowhere to be seen, but you know where she has been keeping your plant. You lead Hannah down one of the long aisles between benches to find the right shelf; she keeps close to you, well aware of the dangers that some of the plants pose.

The _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ is set on one of the smaller shelves surrounded by graceful ferns. You stop walking, and Hannah smiles at you again.

'It's like a cave in here,' she says.

'Nicer than a cave.'

She squeezes your hand and takes a step closer to you. 'I suppose you'll miss the greenhouses the most, won't you? I used to watch you in class a lot. You're so good at Herbology.'

'Um, so are you,' you say. 'I've never seen anyone better at repotting Mandrakes.'

She laughs. 'I'll miss the greenhouses. I sat out here while the professors were talking about whether it was practical to let me come back to do seventh year with everyone else. They weren't sure I'd be able to cope, but my dad and my auntie kept teaching me at home even after my mum died and I had to leave.' Her voice wavers a bit at the end, and you let go of her hand only to pull her close for a hug. She leans her head against your chest and squeezes her arms around your waist.

'I'll miss you, Neville. I missed you while I was away. Ernie kept writing to me and telling me all about what you were doing, and I thought you were so brave.'

You're certain that she can hear your heart racing. 'You were brave to come back when you did, Hannah.'

She pulls back a little and looks up at you. All you can hear is the soft rustle of the plants; all you can smell is the overpowering scent of the exotic orchids; all you can see is the way her lower lip is trembling ever so slightly. When you kiss her, nothing else matters except the taste of her lips under yours and the feeling of her in your arms.

At last you break the kiss, aware of someone moving around inside the greenhouse door. You reluctantly let go of Hannah and pick up the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ pot with one hand, cradling it against your jumper, not minding that it leaves smears of dirt on the wool. You need your other hand free to hold hers, after all.

****


End file.
